Chapter III: Introduction (2)

So he obstinately went his own way, in spite of warnings, till the doctors, whom he injured in their practice, at last lost patience, and prosecuted him. He was convicted and fined, and from that time his medical career was over,—at least so it was universally reported. It seemed strange, however, that now and then a sick person made a wonderful recovery, without having been treated by the doctor.

Now, one evening it happened that old Klaas, the shepherd, was seriously ill, and had asked for the schoolmaster. The Dominie had said “No,” but he had meant “Yes”; for though no longer allowed to do any doctoring, he could not keep from it. So he meant to wait till it was dark, and then slip out unnoticed to Klaas’ cottage.

In Jan o’ the Wood’s orchard three figures were crouching down behind three low dwarf pear-trees, and each of the three had his head full of thoughts that were not those of his neighbour. The burgomaster was chiefly tortured by the idea that on the good or ill success of the evening’s undertaking depended the preservation of his official dignity; for, seeing that he had enjoined the strictest secrecy on the veldwachter, and his promising son and heir, the only question was which of the two would most speedily spread abroad the whole story through the village. But, over and above this, the respected head of the community was trembling like an aspen-leaf, for before his mental eye there arose a vision of a robber—yes, truly and literally, _a robber_,—a man with a long beard, bristling hair, and bloodshot eyes,—a man who goes about with jemmies and murderous weapons on his person, and—and—who might kill you if you came in his way, you see!

The veldwachter was, before all things, eager to behold the heroic feats of the burgomaster, for he was firmly convinced that the mere presence of the great man was sufficient to compel the miscreant to run into the snare. For terror there was _now_ no room in his martial spirit,—for, after all, he had Hannes with him!

Hannes was a big sturdy chap, who at fifteen might well have been taken for eighteen,—a fellow with fists like engine-buffers, and a face which, for shrewd intelligence of expression, was about equal to that of a sheep. Hannes was burning with impatience to hammer away at the malefactor; hitherto he had only tried his strength on mere vagabonds, but now he was to have the opportunity of measuring himself with a real thief. That would be something to boast of!

Thus the three would-be thief-catchers sat in the greatest excitement behind three of the smallest dwarf pear-trees that any one can imagine.

A considerable time elapsed, during which even the strained senses of the triumvirate could perceive nothing which, in the remotest degree, resembled even a fraction of a thief. At last Hannes’ patience was exhausted, and with it his capacity for silence. “Dad,” he began in a whisper, “if he comes, am I to take him by the throat and choke him, or shall I punch his head till he falls down dead?”

“I don’t know,” replied the veldwachter, in an equally cautious whisper, at least as low as his love for gutturals and sibilants would allow, “I’ll just ask his worship.” Thus did Kobus, and repeated the gruesome question to the burgomaster, thereby sending a shudder through the latter’s limbs.

“Tell him,” said the heroic man to his heroic subordinate, who was squatting between his superior and his son, “that he must seize him by the legs, so as not to come within reach of his hands; the thief is sure to have daggers and pistols to defend himself with if he is attacked.” Thus spake the wise man; but the real reason for his caution was that he felt there might be disagreeable consequences for himself if Hannes received the thief in too heavy-handed a manner.

The veldwachter passed on the message in a whisper to his son:

“Hold him by the legs, Hannes!”

“All right, dad,” replied Hannes, though he did not understand why he was to treat the criminal so gently. But the burgomaster had said so,—in other words, the oracle had spoken, and so——

It was very quiet, in the dark, behind Jan’s pear-tree. The burgomaster dropped his venerated head, and slept. When Kobus heard the low sound of snoring beside him, he turned to his son, and said:

“Hannes, his worship is off; I think I’ll have a nap too; keep a good look-out, and give me a push if you see anything wrong.”

“All right, dad,” said Hannes, and he sat bolt upright, and opened his eyes still wider than before. But the duet at his side, the darkness all round him, and the weariness in his eyelids, made him close them now and then. He struggled bravely against sleep, but there was no one to help him. And he was only fifteen, and it was so late and so dark, and Hannes fell into a doze.

Now and then he was awakened for a moment or so by the uneasy thought that he was the one who had to watch. On one of these occasions, he thought he saw a dim figure pass right before him in this dark, and to hear steps—hurried footsteps. He rubbed his eyes, and—yes—there was some one carefully opening the gate and leaving the orchard.

Hastily Hannes awakened his parent, in the gentle manner prescribed and told him, in a whisper, what he knew. The awful tidings were then reported to the burgomaster, and a moment later the trio were on their way to seek the thief, who surely, as the veldwachter supposed, was just carrying away his booty. Hannes went first, the burgomaster followed, and Kobus formed the rearguard. This order had been determined by the burgomaster. “For,” said he, “as head of the community, I ought to have the most protection.”

In this way the police force wandered aimlessly about for some time. Hannes did not know for certain what direction the thief had taken after leaving the orchard; and, besides, there was scarcely any light. It really seemed as though the moon were taking upon herself to play at bo-peep with the most worshipful the burgomaster, for she chose not to show up at all. Yes, perhaps, indeed—oh! scandalous thought!—she was making faces at the great man behind her thick curtain of clouds! Who knows?—there are such queer stories told about the moon.

The expedition, then, returned to the orchard unsuccessful, and once more took up its position behind the dwarf pear-trees. That the miscreant might yet return seemed probable, as Hannes assured them that he had indeed seen him carrying something under his arm, but not a large sack or anything of that sort. He could not, therefore, have taken _much_ with him. And they waited—waited—waited....

Meanwhile the schoolmaster had quietly gone on his way. The better to escape observation, he did not take the nearest way, along the main street, but went out into his back garden, opened a little gate which led into Jan o’ the Wood’s orchard, struck right across the orchard, and so reached a lane leading round to the other side of the village. Here he turned into a wood, and, following a small winding footpath, came at length to a lonely cottage, seemingly forsaken, hidden away among the tall trees. Here he seemed a habitual visitor. At least he lifted the latch without first knocking, opened the door, and found himself in an apartment serving at the same time as bedroom and kitchen.

A close, heavy air, and an ominous stillness, seemed to oppress him as he entered. But the Dominie was not easily daunted. He felt about till he found a lamp standing on the table, and lit it. With the light, life seemed to come into the dead silence of the room; at least a low moaning was heard from a corner where there was a bedstead, and a broken voice asked, “Who’s there?”

“It’s I, Klaas, the schoolmaster,” announced the visitor; and, bending over the sick man, he went on, “How is it with you?”

“It’s all up, Dominie, it’s all up,” gasped the voice. “Oh, Klaas is no great loss—not much; oh no!”

There seemed to be reason enough for such an estimate; at least the man who lay there dying did not give the idea of one whose loss society would feel very keenly. The flickering lamp-light showed the bed-place, let into the wall like a ship’s berth, in an indefinite half-darkness, except the head, on which a dull yellow gleam was cast. There lay, on an unsightly grey, greasy bolster, a head that at first sight seemed more animal than human. The thin face was made still more angular and hollow by the strongly projecting cheek-bones, and the pointed chin with its bristly beard. The upper-lip, and indeed the whole mouth, was almost covered with stiff hair; the nose was broad, flat, and turned up; while a quantity of lank, tangled hair fell over the projecting forehead and deep-set eyes. But these eyes glittered fiercely, every now and then, in their dark sockets, and then again looked anxiously, almost entreatingly, at the schoolmaster.

The Dominie tried to answer him cheerfully. “Come, come, Klaas! What foolish talk is this? You may not have been a king or a great man, but you have been of use for all that. Shepherds are wanted just as much as kings.”

“No, sir,” said Klaas, moving his head restlessly. “Every day so many finer lights are blown out, and Klaas is only a rushlight. Oh, Lord, yes!”

The old schoolmaster tried to comfort him, but Klaas still seemed to have something on his mind.

He had stolen Jan’s pears a fortnight ago, he told the schoolmaster at last.

The old man remained with him till a late hour, and then started homewards by the same way as he had come.

“Father, father!”

“What is it, Hannes?”

“I hear the gate creak.”

“So it does.... Your worship, here he comes back again.”

“Really? Yes, I see him.... Kobus, stand firm, my man. Let Hannes hold him fast by the legs. No, not yet—wait till he passes! Oh, do be careful! Look out for his weapons!”

“Hannes, be ready!”

“I’m quite ready, dad.”

“Not before I speak, and then by the legs—do you hear?”

“Yes, dad. Hush now!”

—The shuffling of approaching footsteps in the grass of the orchard ... suddenly a figure disengages itself from the darkness.—

“Now, Hannes, now!”

Hannes creeps forward along the ground, seizes the figure, according to instructions, firmly by the ankles—a good pull—and the thief falls forward at full length. Hannes seizes his wrists, and lets himself fall flat on the top of his prey.

The veldwachter, for greater security, incontinently throws himself upon his two predecessors; and the burgomaster crowns the human pyramid, and the successful thief-hunt, by sitting down, with all his burgomasterly weight and a heavy bump, upon the three others, triumphantly shouting the while, “I’ve got him,”—which is answered by, “Oh my ribs, your worship!” from the uppermost stratum, “What in thunder!” from the midmost, and a smothered groan from the lowest.

“Hannes, have you got a hold of his hands—tight now?”

“Yes, your worship, but I can’t do anything myself like this.”

“Well, I’ll get up, but keep a good hold of him—do you hear?”

“All right, sir.”

The burgomaster arose. “Kobus, put the handcuffs on him at once. In heaven’s name make haste about it then.”

The veldwachter bustled up from the ground, and set about securing the prisoner as closely as possible. While he was thus occupied, and Hannes was holding the persistently silent criminal, the burgomaster kept walking round and round his captive in order to see what sort of a fish he had got in his net. In this he would probably have been unsuccessful, had not the moon, in a sudden caprice, shone out brightly once more. When the triumvirate saw the pale face, paler than ever with the fright and the cold moonlight, and perceived it to be the face so well known to them, all their astonishment uttered itself in the simultaneous cry—

“The Dominie!”

The school was empty, and the children had a holiday, for the Dominie ... was sitting in the vault under the tower.

Under the tower sat the Dominie, amidst pieces of old iron and other rubbish. Light and air stole in shyly, in small quantities, through the little, square, grated window, in which a single scrap of glass, dusty and weather-stained, remained in one corner, to show there had once been a pane. As the court-house was surrounded by a paddock, which again was enclosed by a low wall, the sounds from outside only penetrated indistinctly, as a vague murmur, into this chamber. Sometimes it was quiet,—deadly still, there, especially of an evening, and then life came into the place, for the rats and mice began their games. The Master was an old man, and nervous, and he could not sleep much. He thought over the whole matter in his wakeful hours, and it gradually became clear to him that he had been arrested by mistake.... Klaas had stolen Jan van ’t Hout’s pears, and he, the Dominie, had been taken for the thief returning for a second load. But it would not be difficult to prove his innocence. Only it was lasting a long time; he ought surely to have been tried before now. Four days had passed without his hearing anything. Even the veldwachter, who, as a rule, could not be with him two minutes without wanting to relate some story or other, was now silence itself, when he brought the Dominie his daily rations. What was the meaning of this delay?

“SITTING IN THE VAULT UNDER THE TOWER.”
]

Yes, the delay had well-founded reasons! The burgomaster had indeed caught the fish, but he did not exactly know what he was to do with him. It was a ticklish business. Was he to hand over the prisoner immediately, without the form of a trial, to the authorities in town? or was he first to hold an inquiry, and send up the _procès-verbal_ along with the prisoner? Supposing the latter to be the case, how was he to set about it? It was a most unfortunate circumstance that there had never been any thieves in the parish, for now the burgomaster was most certainly at his wits’ end. The secretary—a poor, infirm old man, almost in his dotage—was consulted in vain. The same result attended a conference with the “law-holders.”[6] Finally the burgomaster called Kobus to his assistance. He reflected for some time, and said at last:

“Doesn’t it say in the communal bye-laws?”

“This case is one for which no provision is made in the _Gemeentewet_” said the burgomaster, with admirable composure,—the truth being that the greater part of the Gemeentewet was Greek to him, and that he had gradually picked up, by practical experience, what knowledge he possessed of his official duties. Kobus, however, was very far from suspecting any such subtleties, and believed his superior implicitly. His invention being now exhausted, he confined himself to remarking, with a sigh, “If it hadn’t been the Dominie himself, now, we might have asked him—he could surely have looked it up somewhere.”

Yes, that would have been too absurd. They could not have brought the Dominie all his books in a wheelbarrow, and requested him to “look up” information as to what was to be done with himself! No—that would not do. But all at once an expedient occurred to Kobus. There was an old, old man in the village—a grey-beard of ninety or more. Perhaps in his young days there might have been such a thing as a malefactor in this rural region. Yes, the idea was not such a bad one, and Kobus was sent as a delegate from the government to this oracle of antiquity. In fact, the old man had a suggestion ready. He remembered that some sixty years ago an analogous case had occurred, and then the burgomaster had first examined the culprit himself, and then sent him to town for trial. He added, however, that the burgomaster on that occasion had not been quite certain of what he ought to do. That, however, did not matter so much—the precedent was there in any case. The schoolmaster then must be examined; and, as Mulders had once been present at a trial in court, the forms of justice presented no such great difficulty after all.

On the fifth day after his arrest, the schoolmaster was haled forth from the dungeon under the tower, and—of course, heavily handcuffed—taken to the council-chamber. That was an event. The whole village formed a long procession, which accompanied the prisoner; and when he was taken inside, his train remained hanging about the doors. Then followed a buzz and clatter among the crowd, as though it were a swarm of bees, or a duck-yard.

“THAT WAS AN EVENT.”
]

“It’s too bad,” said a little old woman; “an old white-haired man like that. What may not a man come to? Only yesterday he was teaching my daughter’s children their lessons, and to-day the poor lambs are running after their master, because he’s been in jail just like some nasty vagabond. And I can’t believe it of him, do you know—anything but that. He has always been much too kind to every one. I’m not the only one here whom he has helped for nothing—nothing at all—without your having to pay a cent for it.”

“Yes, but, mother,” began a rich farmer,—with a face and attitude in which the most condescending amiability could not altogether hide the lowest greed, and a stupid arrogant conceit,—“you must understand that there are well-founded reasons—I say, _well-founded reasons_—for the man to have been taken up—eh? That’s surely self-evident—eh? No one is put into handcuffs without important reasons; there must be a ground for such a motive—I say, _for such a motive_.” And then the mighty orator looked round him with a “What do you think of me now?” expression, and enjoyed his victory over the old woman. But the latter was not to be driven from the field so easily.

“You go along with your French talk. I know nothing about that,—and yet I think I know quite as much as you do yourself. But this I know, that it doesn’t look well for you, of all people, to abuse the schoolmaster anyway. Even though it were as clear as a post above the water that the Dominie had stolen, _you_ ought to stand up for him! Do you understand me—eh?”

The rich farmer understood quite well. When his youngest boy had been lying ill some months ago, he had been too mean to send for a doctor, though he could well afford it, and had called the schoolmaster to his assistance. Then, as at other times, the Dominie had said “No,” to keep up appearances, as he was not supposed to practise any more; but he had thought “Yes,” and acted on his thought. And the rich farmer had paid him nothing. This was why he now hurriedly turned away from this covert attack, muttering something about “old creatures getting quite childish,” but abstained from further contradiction.

But the old woman could not be everywhere at once to take the Dominie’s part, and the conclusion of most conversations was this: “Yes, you see, folks don’t call a cow piebald, when there’s not a spot about her.”

Suddenly, however, all voices were hushed before the reverently-uttered magic formula, “The Burgomaster!”

The crowd parted to let him pass, and he went up to the council-chamber, where the faithful Kobus, in his Sunday suit, was awaiting him. He was already going to meet the burgomaster, in order to tell him that “they” were all there; but the great man was looking straight in front of him, as stiff as a poker, and making, in a direct line, for his official chair, like a guest who, on being ushered in, looks neither to right nor left, but makes straight for the lady of the house.

This was “the proper form.” Kobus was so impressed by this ceremonial that he stared with open mouth and eyes, and remained immovable, like a masculine counterpart of Lot’s wife. The burgomaster had elegant manners, that he had.

“Are all present?” asked the burgomaster, suddenly.

Kobus awakened with a start from his ecstatic trance. “Yes, your worship,” he answered, regaining his composure.

“Then the trial may begin,” said the President of the Court. “And you, Veldwachter, do you caligraph it!”

“I—I don’t altogether understand, your worship.”

“Caligraph, Veldwachter!”

“Oh!—ah!—hm—yes, I don’t understand——.”

“Write it down, Veldwachter. Caligraphy—that is the art of writing, you know.”

“All right, your worship.” Kobus sat down at a table, took up a pen, and bent over a sheet of paper. But the paper was destined to remain unsoiled. For, all of a sudden, the burgomaster looked round him, and, probably struck by the emptiness of the room, inquired, “Veldwachter, are all the witnesses present?”

“All the witnesses are present, your worship,” answered Kobus, indicating, with a majestic wave of the hand, his solitary son Hannes, who sat so forlorn, that, looking at him and the schoolmaster, it would have been hard to say which was witness and which defendant; for the Dominie had his handcuffed hands on his knees under the table, and you would not have guessed from his calm features—pale and worn with the fatigues of the last few days—that he was accused of any crime.

“But,” pursued Kobus, “your worship has just said something that gives me an idea. Ought there not to be some other witnesses?”

“Other witnesses?”

“Yes, I mean witnesses to witness _for_ him, do you see? I mean to say, Hannes sits here, for instance, to speak against—I mean against the Dominie,—but ought there not to be some witnesses to speak for him as well?”

The burgomaster began to think. This was a difficult question, one of those ticklish and delicate problems, the solution of which forms the principal _raison d’être_ of a burgomaster’s career. If only this miserable trial had never begun! He cast a furtive glance at the defendant. If only he could consult the Dominie, and ask him to look up his books about the matter! But away with such humiliating thoughts! No; better, if it must be, to manifest his ignorance in a more becoming way: “Veldwachter, is that what they do in town? It was different in my time.”

“They do it that way now, your worship.”

“Then we had better move with the times, and adapt ourselves to the new usages. But where are the—the _for_-witnesses to come from?”

“Oh! there’s a whole crowd outside the door, your worship—perhaps you might find one among them. And if there’s no one to be had—well, at any rate, we’ve done our best to find one.”

“Go outside, then, and proclaim a summons, on my behalf.”

Kobus went and did so, wording the “proclamation” as clearly as he knew how. But a deathly stillness was all the answer he received. For though many a simple soul was honestly convinced of the defendant’s innocence, and though here and there a solitary voice had been raised in his favour,—to go in there, into the council-chamber,—_to stand before the tribunal_,—that was more than those timid folk could undertake.

Suddenly, however, a shrill voice cried, “Well, if no one else will do it, I will.” And the little old woman who had already taken up the cudgels for the Dominie, forced her way hastily to the front of the crowd.

“Look’ee there; Auntie’s going to speak,” cried various voices. Every one repeated, laughing, “Auntie’s going to speak!” for under this name the old lady was known to all the village.

Auntie cared neither for laughter nor tears, but went straight forward, climbed the court-house steps, and then suddenly turned round, waved her thin old arms, and cried as loud as she could, “You’re a pack of cowards, the lot of you,—do you hear, you great loobies?” Then she disappeared inside. And though she was a funny figure enough as she stood there, no one thought of laughing,—they all felt the truth of Auntie’s words too deeply.

“YOU’RE A PACK OF COWARDS.”
]

Auntie was conducted inside by the veldwachter, and her eye immediately fell on her client. The Dominie remained seated in the same attitude, discouraged and dejected—deeply humiliated by the thought that, at his age, with his aspirations and such a past behind him, he should have to bow his head beneath the weight of a criminal accusation! The trouble dimmed his thinking powers, and drove the blood through his veins at lightning speed. What a hammering in his pulses—what a thumping in his temples—what a rushing in his ears! He felt like a swimmer who has been long under water, and finds it press more and more crushingly on him, and hears its noise in his ears. That was the fever—the fever that was rising higher and higher in his blood, and brought that unnatural flush to his usually pale cheeks.

Auntie looked at the sad spectacle he presented, and her indignation rose, and craved for immediate utterance.

“Burgomaster!” she began, “don’t you call it a shame that the Dominie——”

But her flow of words was immediately interrupted by the burgomaster: “Silence! witness, this is not as it should be. You have come here to give your evidence voluntarily, and to do this effectually all the forms must be observed. Witness, what is your name?”

“Well, I never—my name! Just as though the whole village didn’t know me? Come, come, Burgomaster, every one knew my name long before yours was ever thought of; and do you want to pretend that you don’t know me? No, man, that won’t do. All those grand manners won’t go down with old Auntie. All the same, I can tell you plainly why the poor fellow could not have stolen the pears; and so you are quite out of it, with all your fine forms and speeches, do you see? Now just let me ask you, if he took the pears, where did he leave them,—say?”

And Auntie placed her arms akimbo, and assumed an attitude which seemed to say, “Your turn now—come on!”

But the opposite party remained passive. The burgomaster, as it happened, was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed as though it could not come to an end. It was a pity, for, but for that, surely, the wise man would have answered the conundrum with Solomonic perspicuity. The veldwachter-clerk said, “Hm, hm—yes, yes,” and covered his beard with his hand. The witness for the prosecution yawned with _ennui_ and hunger. The defendant sat still, and looked at the old woman with rigid eyes.

But all things come to an end, and so did the presiding judge’s cough. However, he seemed to have coughed away all his judicial sagacity, for he remained silent. Not so Kobus Mulders, who awakened from his reverie after this fashion—

“Yes, yes,—where did he leave them? I only say, your worship,—where did he leave the pears, if he stole them?”

“Oh, yes, that’s what I should like to know,” said Auntie, shortly, and closed her lips with a look of firm conviction.

Another pause.

“Yes,” resumed Kobus, “he can’t have swallowed them all down at once.” This joke appeared to him so inexpressibly funny, that he burst into a loud hoarse laugh, which was echoed by no one except Hannes. But suddenly the joker’s features became rigid, and he looked at every one present with a face whose expression plainly said, “How is it possible that I did not think of it before?” and exclaimed, “I know! Your worship, the little chest that we found in Klaas’s cottage the day after he died——”

“Well, Kobus?” asked the burgomaster, in great excitement—so much so that he quite forgot to speak officially.

“It is the Dominie’s, and now I understand everything. The Dominie _didn’t_ steal, and Auntie is quite right. It could not be, either. Just listen. The Dominie has been at his doctoring again. He went to see Klaas when he was dying, and forgot to take his medicine-chest away with him when he left. I am quite sure it is his medicine-chest, because it is the same thing I used to see in his hands in the old times, when nobody minded his doctoring folks. And the time just corresponds. On the day after we arrested the Dominie, I went to see Klaas, and found him dead. It’s as plain—as—well, it’s quite plain!”

Every one had listened with the greatest attention, and the explanation seemed to have made a deep impression on all. The Dominie, however, seemed to feel it most. He suddenly started up out of his apathy, leaned his handcuffed hands on the table, and tried to speak. Everything melted into a dull roar inside his head—the light turned to scarlet—he had fainted.

All of them hastened up to help him—Auntie foremost, in spite of her old legs. Slowly he came to himself again, and then he tried to think. He remembered what had happened, in a dim sort of way. What now? What should he answer if they asked him whether Kobus’s supposition was correct? It was—and yet, if he acknowledged that he had gone to Klaas on that particular evening to give him medical help, then he would have to expect for the future so strict a supervision of his forbidden practice, that it would thenceforth be almost impossible to carry it on. And he could not give it up—he could not, and would not. But to be looked on as a thief! Oh, if he could only think—think quietly and calmly. But this fever! this fever! No, it was his duty, his calling, and he must be true to it, though he should be crushed by the contempt of the whole world—the world he longed to do good to. And wildly, as a wave of delirium swept over him, he said, “No! no! no! I didn’t do that! The chest is not mine! I know nothing about it, and wish to know nothing—do you hear? I am no doctor; I am only a poor schoolmaster! I am much too stupid to be a doctor, and I have never done anything of the sort! I’m a thief—a wretched thief—a thief!” He cried shrilly once more, with all his strength, “A thief!” and let his burning head drop on his heaving breast.

His hearers looked at each other. Not one of them now believed in his guilt, and even in the burgomaster—who was only narrow-minded, not bad-hearted—every hostile feeling now gave place to pity.

“Come, Dominie,” he said, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “come, you mustn’t make so much of it as all that. We all understand the whole business now; and as for the medicine-chest, I forbid every one here present to say one word about it!” At these words the burgomaster looked round him with such a solemn air of command, that Kobus cast down his eyes, and Hannes shuddered with sheer reverence. But the great man, mindful of his duties as presiding judge, went on—“Now, defendant, you are acquitted; you may go.”

But Auntie flew up in a storm of indignation. “What! go? My patience, me! Burgomaster, don’t you see the poor soul can hardly sit in his chair? Come, Hannes, you great lout, what are you loafing about there for, you great long booby, you? Run out, and tell them to send some menfolks to carry the Dominie home. Quick now!”

This classic oration produced a visible impression on Hannes, and, before long, he came back with several men, who carried the schoolmaster away, Auntie walking behind, and saying, from time to time, “Take care! take care!” When it became known outside that the Dominie’s innocence was established, every one set up a loud cry of joy.

Inside, however, the burgomaster and Kobus were looking at each other with serious faces. “I haven’t written down anything, with all the confusion,” said Kobus. The burgomaster considered. If the matter were reported in town, he would probably get well laughed at for his mistake. And what about the forms in which such a narrative, if reported, would have to be clothed? No; it was best to put the whole thing aside, and say no more about it.

“Veldwachter, it seems to me that this matter is not now of sufficient importance for us to communicate it to the judicial authorities of the _parquet_; so you may go too.”

Without understanding half of this speech, Kobus was able to catch the burgomaster’s drift,—the matter was at an end. So he went home, reflecting how frightfully learned the burgomaster was.

C. K. ELOUT.

_MY HERO._

I was a boy of twelve or thirteen, and, just like other boys of that age, full of life, mischief, ideals, and illusions.

A good-for-nothing little scamp out of school, I was, under the master’s eye, a queer mixture of the genuine mischief-loving boy and the zealous pupil. If I found no attraction in the dry science of arithmetic and the rules of grammar, all the more did I feel attracted by the history of all nations in general, and ours in particular.

Yet not altogether; it was only the warlike Spartans and Romans, our own crusading knights, and the fierce and enterprising Gueux,—in short, only those whom I looked upon as heroes who could arrest my attention.

Frequently it vexed me that my lunch-slice of bread and butter did not consist of black, coarse bread; sometimes I felt a deep disdain for my clothes, so different from those in which the Roman legions marched to victory; all peaceable merchant-vessels were an abomination to me,—I knew but one ideal—to be a hero.

What I understood by a hero was not quite clear, even to myself,—only this was certain, that no one could be a hero unless he had won many great battles over stronger adversaries, or had blown up his ship in order to save the flag, or ended his glorious life covered with wounds in the breast (never in the back, of course!). In short, my idea of a hero was somewhat complicated; but this much was certain, that a great hero ought to be able to show a large number of wounds and scars, and that his bravery should be equalled by his generosity.

I wished to be a hero myself, but as I quite understood that I was too young for the position at present, my great desire was, at least, to see and know a hero.

I sought everywhere for this superior being, and thought at last that I had found my ideal in our new “odd man,” who had been a soldier, and had a large scar on his cheek.

From this one outward and visible token of his bravery, I argued that he must have more hidden about his person, under his clothes. These wounds, alas! I could never hope to see, as he did not live in the house, but came every day to clean boots and run errands.

I was, however, firmly convinced that they existed. The only drawback to his greatness was the fact that he had both his arms and no wooden leg. I would much rather it had been otherwise, but managed to content myself with his many unseen wounds.

I was still seeking an opportunity of asking him how and when he had become a hero, when I was suddenly bereft of my illusion.

Our kitchenmaid was beforehand with me.

One day, when I had furtively slipped out to the kitchen, in order to question Frans, I heard Mie, our maid, say—

“I say, Frans, have you been in the wars, that you have such a mark over your face?”

Then he replied—

“In the wars! I believe you! We’ve nothing more to do with wars in this country, now! No,—when I was leaving the service, I treated my chum one night. But he got drunk and outrageous, and chucked me through a window, so that I cut my face open. No—I didn’t get it in the wars—and jolly glad of it, too!”

I stood thunderstruck—the tears rose in my eyes.

No wounds on his breast! Even the scar was a delusion and a snare. I no longer believed in living heroes. They no longer existed.

But I was going to be a hero all the same. And till I was able to re-introduce the breed, I would content myself with the dead heroes of the past.

“I HAD FURTIVELY SLIPPED OUT TO THE KITCHEN.”
]

But there were so many of them—and I wanted a special hero all to myself. Where should I find him?

De Ruyter was a hero, killed by the enemy’s shot—but I had nowhere read that he had many wounds.

Bayard!—but I knew so little of him—and besides, he was not a Dutchman.

Cæsar—Napoleon—Blücher!—but how about the wounds?

Besides, every one knew that these were heroes; and I wanted one for myself—for my own special worship—not one of the universally famous ones.

My search, however, was not to be fruitless long. I found my hero in the following way.

There were to be drains laid down round the old church in our city; and the ground being dug up for that purpose, a number of skulls and bones were found in the black earth.

All the boys of the school went to look as soon as they could get away, and it may be supposed that I did not remain behind. We were all inspired with a frenzied enthusiasm for relics of antiquity. We grubbed about in the earth of the opened graves, to find coins, pots, or even potsherds if we could get nothing else. We envied the town workmen, who were allowed to keep on digging and finding all day long; and scarcely had it struck twelve when we flew to the Kerkplein, to see what these greedy persons had left us, and to discover anything that might have escaped their search.

But we found nothing—neither did the diggers. Most of the boys, therefore, gave up the search—I, alone, did not. I was seeking a dead, unknown hero,—while they were looking only for coins and nicknacks. I knew for certain that I should find something, when there were not so many eyes on the watch, and therefore I remained away from school one morning in order to go to the old churchyard.

For a long time nothing at all had been found—not even bones or mouldering boards; so that all the other boys too—those who did not belong to our school—had grown tired of coming.

Luck, however, was with me!

On one particular spot, at some distance from the church, pieces of skeletons again began to be dug up. The workmen examined the earth to see if it contained anything of value, but found nothing. My eager eye, however, spied among the clods a lump of a different colour. I loosened the earth from it, and found, to my great joy, a flattened bullet.

That was a discovery!

I turned over the heap of earth, and thus came into possession of six bullets, and a little copper plate covered with earth and rust.

The bullets!—My hero was found!

Reverently I picked up some bones which had been thrown aside, and carefully packed the remains of my hero in my school satchel.

My hero!—a real hero now!—not an imaginary one, like Frans, the odd man.

When I came home, in a tumult of joyful excitement, I secured my treasure safely in my play-box, to which I had a key. And then I had my hero safe—all to myself!

At dinner, I looked round triumphantly, and felt the deepest disdain for my parents and sisters. They had never made such a discovery! They could not even understand what it is to possess the very remains of a hero—the hero himself! I scarcely ate anything for pride and joy, till my mother said—

“Why, Con, you’re not eating. Are you not well?”

I could only stammer a few words, and then thrust a whole potato into my mouth in order to prove my appetite, which, happily, reassured my mother.

As soon as dinner was over, I darted to my own room to assure myself that I had not been dreaming, and that my hero existed in very truth. The bones and bullets, and the little metal plate, were there still.

I contemplated them all once more, with a look full of love and reverence, and went downstairs again, so as to arouse no suspicion.

Never had I been a better-behaved boy than on that evening. I played with my little sister as nicely as possible; I was obedient as I had never been before,—all for fear that some unlucky circumstance might lead to a discovery of my hero on the part of my parents.

At last it was time to go to bed. At last I was alone with the sacred relics of the man who had stood six bullets, without reckoning the innumerable wounds—to be taken for granted—on his breast!

I gazed at the bones, brown and dirty as they looked—at the flattened bullets, and rusty bit of metal, with deep reverence. The plate probably bore his name; but if so, it was illegible with the dirt. Should I clean it? I burned with eagerness to know his name, and felt half inclined to do it; but desisted, thinking that, being rusty, and covered with earth, it would prove its age much better than if it were bright and polished up like new.

At last, after long contemplation of my treasures, I locked them up, and put the key under my pillow, for fear of burglars. Once in bed, however, I could get no sleep. All sorts of ideas relating to my hero crossed and recrossed my brain.

In the first place, I resolved to make a secret of him. It is a glorious thing to have a secret all to one’s self—and such a secret!

It was settled, then—no one was to see or hear anything of him. I alone was to possess my Hero, and be able to worship Him.

Then I began to wonder who he could have been, and when he had lived, and where he had fought and died.

It was quite clear to me that the six bullets represented but a small part of his wounds, for it was not possible that he had been killed on the field of battle by the sixth of those bullets. I knew that the fallen are always buried on the field of honour. Therefore he must have died of other wounds,—probably sword-cuts, lance-thrusts, or the like.... Then I fancied all sorts of biographies for my hero.

I should have liked best of all for him to have been a Crusader; but I was forced to give up that idea, seeing that in those days there were no guns, and therefore no bullets.

I therefore resolved to seek in more modern times.

A Water Gueux slain in fight? That, too, would not do. _They_ were wrapped in a flag, and with a “One, two, three—in God’s name,” let down into the sea.

I weighed all possible cases—to reject them again immediately.

At last I hit upon the following, which satisfied me pretty well:—My hero had fought in Napoleon’s wars, and was for his valour promoted by the great Emperor to the rank of general. In all battles he had been foremost, and many a wound bore witness to his courage. Napoleon had even chosen out a kingdom for him; when fortune changed, and all nations rose to free themselves from the power of the great conqueror.

Then my hero had left his place in the army, and his exalted offices, and had ranged himself under his country’s flag to serve her as a private soldier.

After giving numerous proofs of courage, he was so severely wounded at the battle of Waterloo,—where he defended the colours of his regiment, single-handed, against a large number of the foe,—that he felt his end approaching. And when he knew that the victory was won, he dragged himself home to his native town to die.

His funeral was a splendid one, and the fallen hero was buried in a spot apart from others, who were not thought worthy to be near him, even in death.

This last circumstance I added, after long consideration, to explain the isolated position of my hero’s grave.

Another difficulty, however, presented itself. Why was there no monument erected to him?

The solution of this question cost me no little trouble. In our church there were two splendid monuments, with beautiful Latin verses on them; and the men who slept under them were of far less importance than my hero. But here, too, there was an explanation. My hero himself had said on his deathbed that he did not wish for a monument, but preferred to rest simply under the green grass;—his name would live well enough without one!

This, however, raised a new difficulty. I had never heard of any hero buried in the former burying-ground close to the church. Happily, however, I remembered to have read somewhere that “ingratitude is the world’s reward.”

He was forgotten!

That grieved me deeply; but I determined with myself to revive the memory of his name, when I should be somewhat older, and could write in the papers, and become a member of the Useful Knowledge Society. Then I would tell people how great my hero had been, and how ungratefully the world had treated him. Till then, he should remain my secret.

Of course I had adorned him with all sorts of chivalric qualities. I had seen him in my thoughts as the protector of helpless women, as the avenger of wrong; I had seen him risk his life at the command of his superiors, and in order to win one look from his lady.

And I had ended by endowing him with the crowning grace of modesty. Of this I was not a little proud. I knew for certain that all the other boys’ heroes would be brutal and arrogant, and set upon getting monuments for themselves.

Mine, however, was modest ... and his reward was oblivion.... Yes—till I should arise ... _then_ my hero should be greater than all others.

Happy that now I knew _all_ about my hero, youth and excitement were too much for me, and I fell asleep.

Next morning I arose, no longer a boy—not even a man. I was a great man. I had a task before me. I must give back to my hero his just fame and honours.

I had even assumed a new manner!—marbles and suchlike games were now beneath me,—and I thought the other boys uninteresting and childish. They, on their part, soon found that I had become tiresome and pedantic, and asked me if I had come in for a fortune, and was now too much of a swell for them. I only laughed, and wrapped myself once more in my own glory.

This lasted a few days, and then I began to find out that the solitary enjoyment of glory and a secret was not so great a pleasure as I had thought. Happily I had two bosom friends—Wil and Ed.

I resolved, after many heart searchings of heart, to share my wealth with these two. After I had sworn them to secrecy, and also exacted a solemn promise that they would not endeavour to appropriate my hero to themselves, I told them of my discovery, and all I knew of him,—for what I had myself imagined now seemed like truth to me. I enjoyed their evident jealousy, and, still more, their admiration and reverence for me.

“But, Con,” said Wil at last, “what is the hero’s name, really?”

I stood aghast. I had never thought of that! But they shall never exult over me because I did not know the name of my own hero. So I mentioned the first name that came into my head—“Jan Liller.”

“AFTER I HAD SWORN THEM TO SECRECY.”
]

Happily, they believed me.

From that day forward there was a constant whispering among us, a mystery in our conversation, even on the most unimportant subjects, which drove all the other boys wild with curiosity. But we revealed nothing. We had even determined, for fear of discovery, never to speak of my hero otherwise than as “L. J.”—even when we were alone. J. L. seemed to us much too dangerous.

Sometimes little boys were sent out to listen to us, under pretence of carrying on their games in our neighbourhood. But we were on our guard, and only talked all sorts of nonsense when the small spies were within hearing. Thus my secret did not leak out. Yet we could not be silent altogether.

In school, when the master told us about the great men of our country, from Claudius Civilis to William the Silent, we smiled pityingly, and said to each other, afterwards—

“L. J. could have done better than that!”—or, “They ought to have tried L. J.; he could have taught them something!”—and the like—so that we began to be called “L. J.’s.” But we took great care that no one should find us out, and were very proud of our secret.

I say _our_ secret,—yet, after all, it was really mine, for I had shown the bullets, the metal plate, and the bones neither to Wil nor to Ed. They thus only knew the half—and no more than I had thought fit to tell them. The finest and most important part of all was unknown to them. Of course they acted as if they had been _au fait_ in the whole thing; but they were nothing of the sort.

At home, my changed behaviour began gradually to attract general attention. I had assumed a mysteriousness of demeanour, from which my father—judging from long experience—argued that there must be some special piece of mischief on hand.

As I frequently remained lost in thought, and no longer cared for games as I used to do (I thought them childish since the discovery of my hero), my mother came to the conclusion that I was not well; while my little sister, of course, was as curious as a girl can be. Therefore the three, each for his or her own reason, were constantly at my heels. I soon noticed this, and it was no small hindrance to my doings and projects.

I scarcely dared to produce my hero, for fear some one should come to my room unawares and surprise me in the midst of my relics, and so discover my secret.

My plans, more especially, were in danger!

I wished—as a homage to the glorious Jan Liller—to make an elegant little casket, lined with precious bits of silk, plush, and lace, to preserve therein his precious relics, and the glorious evidences of his heroic existence. I intended to make the fretwork casket myself,—but I durst not do it in the general sitting-room. Whenever I could, I stole away to my own little room, and went to work there. Once I was surprised by my mother when very busy; but when she saw my work, she pretended not to have noticed anything. My conscience reproached me bitterly; for I understood that my dear mother had thought I was working at a present for her approaching birthday.

But, for the moment, my hero took precedence of everything. I hoped to be able to buy something for my mother’s birthday, trusting to the ready aid of my father’s purse.

On a certain day, when I was out for a walk with my father, he suddenly said to me, “Well, Con, is the digging in the Kerkplein all over? I have not been there for some time. I suppose you have been there to see whether anything in your line has been turned up?”

Did my father suspect anything? and was he fishing?

I answered evasively.

“I have not been there since last week.”

“DID MY FATHER SUSPECT ANYTHING?”
]

That was true—for just a week ago I had found my hero—and after I had found him, I was satisfied. The charm of rooting about among the graves had vanished. There was nothing more to find now.

“I only thought,” said my father, jokingly, “that you had found a treasure—you are so mysterious lately. Say, my boy, have you grown rich, and are you going to keep your money all to yourself?”

“I have never found anything, father,” I stammered, full of shame at the lie, and yet full of satisfaction at my courage—in daring to tell a falsehood to save my hero from discovery.

Happily my father changed the subject, by asking me if I had any present in view for mother’s birthday. To be honest, I had to answer no, for my hero had taken up all my thoughts and energies. But just as I was thinking what to say, a great, a glorious idea rose up in me. What could be a better present for my mother than my hero?